Page 74 of Depths of Desire
But when I pulled it out, it was just a notification from my banking app. A reminder that my credit card payment was due.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over Oliver’s contact. I could text him. I tell him about the game, about how I’d played the best hockey of my life while feeling like I was dying inside. I could ask him how his training was going, whether he was sleeping, whether he missed me even a fraction of how much I missed him.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I scrolled through my emails until I found the confirmation for the lodge reservation.
The cancellation policy was strict, but I didn’t care about the money anymore.
I was going anyway.
Not with Oliver. Not with the plan we’d made, the romantic getaway that was supposed to recapture the magic of our first night together.
I was going alone.
I’d drink all the all-inclusive booze they had. I’d eat whatever I wanted without counting calories or thinking about performance. I’d masturbate if I felt like it. I’d prove to myself that I could be just fine on my own, that I didn’t need anyone else to be complete.
That I could take that trip and make new memories, better memories, memories that belonged only to me.
“There,” I said aloud to the empty parking lot. “I can move on just fine.” But even as I said it, even as I walked to my room with a plan forming in my head, I knew I was lying.
I wasn’t moving on.
I was running away.
And maybe, for now, that was the best I could do.
TWENTY-ONE
OLIVER
The startingblock was cold beneath my feet.
I adjusted my goggles one final time, pulled my cap down tight until it cut into my forehead. The Denver Aquatic Center stretched before me. A cathedral of competition, eight lanes of blue that would either resurrect my career or bury it completely.
Lane four. 200-meter freestyle final. This is it.
The crowd noise faded to a distant hum as I stepped to the edge. My toes curled over the block’s lip, muscle memory taking over. I’d done this thousands of times before. But never with so much riding on perfect execution.
Last year flashed through my mind like a scar reopening. The Olympics in Paris, silver around my neck, the weight of it heavier than any medal had a right to be. Second place. The reporters asking if I was disappointed, if I’d trained differently, if the pressure had gotten to me. I’d smiled and said all the right things about being honored to represent my country.
Then came Nationals three weeks later. The race that was supposed to be my victory lap turned into a public execution. Sixth place. Sixth. Not even close enough to smell the podium. I’d stood here, watching better swimmers celebrate, and felt something fundamental break inside me.
“Olympic silver medalist Oliver Hayworth, representing Westmont University.” The announcer’s voice cut through my reverie. Silver. Always silver. The word that followed me like a shadow, a constant reminder that I’d beenalmostgood enough when it mattered most.
I scanned the stands reflexively, looking for a face I knew wouldn’t be there. Lennox should have been here, wearing that stupid Westmont hoodie and grinning like he was personally responsible for my success. We’d talked about it back when it was supposed to be later in the summer—he’d drive up Friday, watch preliminaries, stay in my hotel room, and distract me from my nerves in all the best ways.
Instead, strangers held foam fingers, anonymous faces in a sea of people who didn’t know that I’d traded the only good thing in my life for this moment.
This is why I can’t be with him. This is why I have to be alone.
The thought had sustained me through every brutal training session, every lonely night in my apartment, every time I’d stared at my phone wanting to text him and choosing discipline instead. Love was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Happiness was a distraction I didn’t deserve.
Not until I proved I belonged here.
If I fail, there’s no career. No endorsements. No future in the water.
If I win, I’m finally vindicated.
